The Safest Option
by Tsuki the Avenger
Summary: "It was the blood. It was always the blood. It set his teeth on edge and made the wolf restless." Peter has always tried to take the safe route with his wolf in order to keep people safe. However, safety and Roman Godfrey rarely exist in the same sentence (Roman/Peter, slash)


**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This fic is in response to sksdwrld's Hemlock Grove comment-fest prompt. "It's Roman who gets him hooked on the red stuff. Big surprise." Roman/Peter, set during the series.

…

**The Safest Option** by Tsuki

…

It was the blood. It was always the blood. It set his teeth on edge and made the wolf restless. Almost every time Peter walked by the window of the Hemlock Grove butcher shop, his stomach growled and he could feel the wolf twitch beneath his skin. It had been that way ever since he was a kid. The sight of a classmate's skinned knee and a too-rare hamburger were almost indistinguishable. The hunger, the smell, the desire to chomp his teeth through flesh and bone and tendon. He could feel it, his mind's eye full of images of eviscerated deer and shredded carcasses.

He had told his mother this when he was about nine years old. She had been making meatballs in the kitchen and his eyes wouldn't—_couldn't_—leave the small pool of blood in the plastic carton, the fleshy raw meat glistening red. Even though it had been weeks from a full-moon, he had felt so close to a shift, the wolf seeming like it was clawing and trying to escape, to tear into the raw meat and feel satisfied.

From then on, she rarely bought beef or lamb. Meatballs became made of turkey or chicken, hamburger helper replaced by tuna casserole. She didn't want to add to the temptation, she said, didn't want to tease the wolf.

"Remember," she had told him, "that won't take you anywhere good. Better to be safe than sorry."

And Peter had agreed—had avoided the glisten of blood and flesh as much as he could. Hurting people just wasn't an option. He knew that becoming comfortable with the feel of marbled flesh in his mouth and the coppery taste of blood was dangerous. So he had his burgers cooked well-done, ate more chicken and fish, tried not to linger in the meat section of the grocery store. He fed himself and starved the wolf. It seemed like the safest option.

. . .

There was an old gypsy proverb—beauty cannot be eaten with a spoon. If it could be, Peter thought, Roman Godfrey would be a whole meal. A banquet even. His red pouty lips, his round eyes like deep oceanic pools. There was something hypnotizing about him, something Peter found himself fascinated by and drawn to. And they were connected in blood—the blood of the dead girls, the mystery they were trying to solve. When Peter had first seen the crime scene, the wolf had growled and leapt within him—the smell of blood and violence (not to mention another wolf) had driven it crazy. It was restless, violent. The feeling was familiar—it was what the reminder of human blood always did to the wolf.

Which is why Peter was surprised at the feeling of calmness and quiet as he stared at the glistening bead of blood, a raised line where Roman had nonchalantly cut his own thumb with a razor blade. Then the wealthy, powerful young man had raised his hand to his mouth, his tongue flicking out, licking the blood like a cat lapping at milk.

"Why do you do that?" Peter heard himself ask.

Roman looked up, surprised, as if he had forgotten Peter was there. "It calms me down. Helps me think." Considering for a moment, Roman cut the blade deeper into his finger, the blood oozing out now, flowing in a trickle down his palm, across his wrist. "I do this all the time."

"That seems… dangerous. And is that even a clean blade?"

Roman waved his hand dismissively, causing the small red river making its way down his wrist to change course, shifting sideways. "Totally sterile. Like I said, I do this tons. No problems." Lips on skin again, tongue pressing up, licking up the dripping blood like a child catching the drips of a melting popsicle. "Keeps me focused."

Peter listened for his wolf, surprised at its quietness and calm. The wolf seemed to have very little interest in Roman's blood. It was Peter, instead, who was transfixed—his eyes unable to break away from the red smear across Roman's pouty lips.

"What are you staring at, Rumancek?"

The blunt question should have knocked some sense into Peter, should have made him sheepish and embarrassed for staring. But instead he found himself reaching out his hand, a single finger tracing the crimson on Roman's lip.

If Roman was surprised by this, it didn't show. Instead, the blond youth just smiled, his teeth glinting white underneath the smear of blood. "Come here," he whispered.

Peter didn't think he was compelled, didn't think that Roman used his _Upir_ magic. But, if asked, he couldn't explain why he obeyed, why he moved forward, why he didn't protest as Roman's hand tangled in the hair by his neck and pulled him closer.

"This is my blood, which is given up for you," Roman joked, his voice a deep and throaty chuckle. "Do this…"

Peter silenced him. Lips met lips, tongue slid across tongue. Peter tasted copper and warmth. All of a sudden, there was no struggle with the wolf beneath his skin. He simply was the wolf—all hunger and desire and instinct. He his breath sped up, a loud growl escaping his throat and into Roman's red smeared mouth.

His body was hotter than usual, animal and feral. He felt Roman chuckle against him, his mouth and his posture open and accepting, unaware or uncaring about any danger from the wolf. Peter sucked at Roman's bottom lip, the blood gone now, licked clean. As if called by an unnamed instinct, he bit down. Roman gasped, his own moan escaping his mouth as his bottom lip split open, hot copper lapping against Peter's tongue and smearing both of their chins.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Peter remembered that Destiny had once told him something about the addictive qualities of _Upir_ blood, about its taste having a possible effect on the wolf. But the memory was hazy and any concern pushed aside by Roman's lips and heat and breath.

"Damn…" Roman's voice caught slightly. They were both panting now, like dogs in the sun. "Where did that come from?"

And Peter found that he couldn't quite answer. That he had no way to explain. He just shook his head and trusted that Roman somehow knew. It was the blood. It was always the blood.

…

**END**


End file.
